scars
by soisforte
Summary: England has many scars all over his body. One by one the pain has faded from each, leaving nothing but a vague memory and a dark mark on his skin, except for one that will burn regret into his soul for as long as he lives. England, France, Jeanne D'Arc.


England has many scars.

He knows where all of them came from. The one on the back of his leg is from the German air raids of the forties, the ones on his hip are from America's revolution. The one on his stomach is from the Seven Years' War. The one on his shoulder is from the War of the Roses.

He has many scars all over his body, and a story for each to go with it. Over the years the pain has faded for each one, until it is no more than a memory and a dark mark on his skin.

Only one scar still pains him. Not physically—the wound has long since healed.

But as he dresses every morning and faces himself in the mirror, he can see the scar. Jagged and white, it twists like an ugly river across his chest.

And then he can see it, clear as day.

A girl, with a dirty face and tattered clothes and blond hair that streams in the wind. Her face is weary, with dirt and bruises staining her cheeks like rouge. Blood trickles from her lips, but her eyes, blue as wildflowers in a meadow, are strong, and burn with the intensity of the sun.

He remembers.

He remembers how she streaks across the battlefield, sword and shield and pride and fury and revenge in her hands, how they catch the light of the sun so they light up brilliantly. She is beautiful, and he can't look away from her.

She burns like the sun, they say. A mere girl, leading the French army. It is an idea so ridiculous that England laughs when he first hears it. _A joke_, he proclaims to his men.

A joke!

How wrong he was! If only he could have a commander like her, someone to lead his army with the same strength, the same fire, the same brilliance as she! What a foolish nation he was to underestimate her! Shakespeare himself had spoken centuries later that 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' She was like the sun, a devilish beauty disguised as an angel.

What shame he felt, when she was burnt as a witch. Not when he stood there and watched it, he hadn't felt the shame then. No, he hadn't. She was a witch then, a girl on which many men had gambled their millions, a girl who had bewitched hundreds of men to their deaths, their corpses littering the fields of France.

No, it is only afterwards that England felt his guilty conscience weigh down on him. Only when he sees France on the battlefield again, when he looks into the face of a man he's known since childhood… only when France faces him, sword flashing in the sun, anger and grief in his eyes, only then England feels the shame.

Yet it was more than that, England will later muse in hindsight. It was not just anger and grief, it was wrath and denial and pain. It pierced to the very core of England's heart, and at that very moment, France and England were both human and inhuman at the same time.

Yes, England will say to himself. What he saw in France that day was heartbreak.

The shame washes over England like a wave then. He curses himself for underestimating the French, underestimating the bravery and strength of the girl, of France, and the image of the girl screaming and being consumed by flames cut deeply into England then like a knife, just as painful centuries ago as now.

At night England hides from the world, behind his broken frame of a tent, shutting himself away and letting the guilt burn away whatever is left of him. He lies in his dreams, tortured by the fire that consumed her as well as him.

By day he avoides the shame. He is a nation, he needs to be strong for his people. And eventually he has pushed away the shame into a small corner of his chest, and built a wall around it. The wall stays solid around that cavity in his chest, for a long time, even as France forces him down to his knees in defeat, even as France's blue eyes blaze with grief and betrayal, even as England shut his eyes to see Jeanne d'Arc burning like the sun on the stake.

It stays fast until he goes to France on the day month of May wanes to June.

The spot where England had stood and seen that girl who burned like the sun die.

France is standing there—but in that moment he is not France. He is not a nation, he does not stand for his people. He is a person. He is simply Francis Bonnefoy, mourning the loss of a loved one. Two lilies are clutched in his hand, the flowers of the French, and his face is hidden, but his throat chokes back tears.

England stands there behind him. He too, is not a nation in that moment. He is Arthur Kirkland.

And in that moment, the walls around that cavity in his chest falls. So do the tears from his eyes.

The shame that he could not bear to face for so many years crashes upon him.

Francis turns to look at him then, a question in his eyes.

Arthur presses a hand to his chest and cries. Under his fingertips and through the fabric of his shirt he feels the bumps of that scar, that scar from so many years ago. He needs no words to express his regret to Francis.

Unspoken, the words taste weak on his tongue, and they float away on the breeze. He looks up to Francis, waiting for any reaction. He expects to see Francis's eyes like he saw them hundreds of years ago on the battlefield, dark and stormy and heartbroken.

But when he looks into Francis's eyes, the blue irises carry no anger. They grieve, yes, but anger is gone.

And in that moment, Arthur knows he has been forgiven.

He also knows that he doesn't deserve that forgiveness, and that any words of thanks will taste bitter on his tongue, like lies always do. There is no relief that comes with Francis's silent forgiveness, only more agony that burns at his guilty conscience, just as painful centuries ago as it is now.

Had he been a mere human, the pain would have faded.

But England is not just a human. He is a nation.

And the scras of regret on his wrist he will carry forever.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note~<strong>

Inspired by my friend 's delicious drabble on Francis/Jeanne (it's on her tumblr :3) and the Muse song 'Sunburn.' I think it fits this whole situation very well, which is why I used 'shame' and 'sun' and 'burn' and words like that a lot. Not sure the writing is so much up to par, though, haha.


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